The Influence of Stress
by crackers4jenn
Summary: Dwight and Jim, Dwight and Michael. s2ish.


**1.**

For the first time in at least 2 business days, Dwight sits back in his pliant mechanical chair, folds his hands neatly across his chest, and really scrutinizes his fellow employees. If you could even call them that. It's a thing that he liked to do, right up there with occupying his sparse free time with intense games of D&D. He learns a lot, silently observing. He's a master eyewitness.

A flutter of brown evades his eyesight, and he turns in one swift, inconspicuous movement to watch what Jim's doing. Aside from being perpetually _useless_. Dwight has this untested yet working theory that Jim is Michael's illegitimate love-child from a previous, obviously destructive relationship. It's the only plausible thing that explains his presence here.

Jim's holding the phone up to one ear, leaning across his desk to reach a piece of paper more conveniently located near Dwight than Jim. Dwight could help. But that'd defeat the purpose of being an invisible spectator, now wouldn't it?

Even so, Jim looks up at him from beneath bangs way beyond regulation level. What are they running here at Dunder-Mifflin, a warehouse for miscreants? "Hey," Jim says, whispering it in some laughably pathetic attempt at being professional. Can't ever let the customer know your attention is divided. Rule number one. It makes for slip-ups, and those? Those you can't afford in the paper business. "Can you..." A worthless gesture is made. Overexaggerated facial expressions. "I just need..."

Dwight merely stares. In what reality did Jim wake up this morning? Uh, apparently not the one Dwight lives in, because there's no way he would ever, and seriously, I mean _ever_, bother to help out Jim Halpert. In fact, he's made it a yearly plight to do the exact opposite of that. It's one of his Top 3 Half-Year's Resolutions.

(Dwight doesn't believe in New Year's Resolutions. Why screw yourself over at the very beginning of each 365-day cycle? All you really need is 6 good months to accomplish anything.)

"Okay," Jim huffs, and like a football player tackling a much smaller, probably inanimate object, Jim stretches across both his desk and Dwight's and grabs a laminated notation on paper pricing.

Figures, Dwight sneers to himself. Any credible salesmen would already have these numbers memorized.

Fact: Dwight's known the pricing of all types of both industrial and stock paper since he was 12. It was an interest of his. Some might've called it a fixation. It put him lightyears ahead of everyone else, though, didn't it? Therefore, outcome? _Worth it._

Pam's walking past his desk area. He knows this because of the disgusting wake of flowery vanilla smell she leaves behind. Gross and offensive. Out in the wild, a female doesn't need artificial aromas to attract the attention of the more dominant male. Perhaps she offers a dead mongoose head. There's your first clue of interest. Maybe she raises her tail and squirts out a stream of urine. Second clue.

"Hey, Jim," Pam says, her voice sickeningly soft.

Jim looks up, shuffles the phone to his other ear. Smiles and mouths back 'hey'.

Dwight rolls his eyes. Pathetic.

"Hi, Pam," Phyllis calls out shyly from behind.

Dwight rotates his chair 180 degrees to watch their interaction. They're, as usual, uninteresting. Pam saddles up to Phyllis' side and starts clacking on about yarn and fabric and art supplies. He wouldn't be entirely surprised if mention of their monthly cycle found its way into the conversation.

It upsets Dwight, who considers himself to be a very substantial worker, to see this dire lack of professionalism.

"Uh, excuse me," he interrupts. "Does this LOOK like a women's lavatory?" The sarcasm is implied, as is the smug acknowledgement that he, being stereotypically masculine, would never desecrate the workplace with such trivialness.

Phyllis, bless her obliviousness, looks over. Stutters through an answer. "No?"

That right there? Ending what should be a simple answer with a question? A sign of weakness. Yet another failure in the model and coding of women-folk.

"Correct, Phyllis. This is an office space. In fact, if you wanna get specific, it's _my_ office space--"

"Actually," Jim cuts in, cupping his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "I think this IS the women's lavatory. That's what the sign on the door said."

"What?" Dwight straightens in his chair. _Imbecile._ He doesn't have TIME to deal with Halpert's shortcomings. "We're in an office, Jim--"

"Lavatory."

"See this?" Dwight grabs his phone's headset. Introduction to Office Supplies 101. "This is a phone."

"WOW. How did a phone get in the bathroom?"

"No!" Dwight slams the phone down, leans across his desk to talk to Jim more personally. Without the snickering and giggling of the _girls_ behind to interrupt. "Jim. No, Jim, listen to me! We are in an office space. This is a work place. It's where we're employed."

Jim gives this a tense moment of serious thought, eyes squinted, brow furrowed. Then, "You're sure?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. But only if you say so."

"Besides," Dwight argues, "what would we be doing in a _women's restroom_?" He laughs coolly. "Uhm, _tons_ more than passably competent here. Lack of faulty functioning tear ducts. I think we both know what sex I am."

Jim has no response to that. Pam gapes behind him. Phyllis narrows her eyes.

Then Jim says, into the phone, "No, no, I'm still here. Yeah, sorry. Work stuff. Anyway, so I think we can manage to meet you somewhere in the middle--"

Dwight looks on smugly as Phyllis turns back to her desk, as Pam stiffly walks towards the copy machine in the back area of the room.

These people would be amiss without him around.

Totally and completely amiss.

**2.**

Dwight's been peering at Stanley from the protective cover of a plastic fern plant for approximately 8 minutes and 29 seconds.

In this timeframe he has witnessed Stanley do the exact following:

a) cough loudly, without covering his mouth, infecting the office with who knows WHAT airborne diseases  
b) consume the contents of a (as of now) unrecognizable paper bag  
c) work rather indolently on a crossword puzzle

And as if those weren't whies and wherefores enough for unemployment, Dwight has now had Stanley clocked at being asleep for 3 whole minutes.

"It's revolting, isn't it?" a sudden forced whisper floats bristly from behind him.

Dwight turns to face Angela, who is much shorter and much paler than he. When he looks her in the eye, a short, fleeting moment, he feels a bout of kinship, something akin to respect. He's just glad to know that there's someone out there who understands his Mission of Administrative Justice.

"I've recounted this situation to Michael _several_ times, but, of course, nothing's been done about it."

Dwight doesn't like her twinge of disapproval when talking about Michael. As Michael's No. 2, he bleeds of loyalty for him.

"He's been busy," Dwight offers, with all the calmness of Admiral Adama commanding his fleet in the face of a full on Cylon attack.

Angela huffs. "Hardly."

"Yes, woman! Michael's had an exceedingly hard time of things since She Who Shall Not Be Named stormtrooped into his life and made a holy mess of it."

She glares up at him with sharpened eyes, her lips paper thin. "As if things were so professional around here before."

Before Dwight can get another word in edgewise, she's already spun around and stomped off.

Whatever. What does Angela know? Uh, aside from whatever crap she'd read in her Cat Fancy magazine, probably a big fat Nothing. After all, she's just a woman. A woman with... exquisite proficiency and a respectable calmness in the face of absolute professionalism, maybe, but still. Just a woman.

Dwight watches until her golden tresses, pressed nice and straight, disappear from view.

**3.**

Dwight pokes his head through Michael's door, taps on the wood. "Michael?"

Before him, Michael's head slumps to his desk and he lets out a loud groan. Probably because he's a workhorse and that _floozie_ Jan Levinson has been riding him big time.

"Michael?"

Michael grumbles, then says, still slouched over, "What do you want, Dwight?"

That's all the invitation Dwight needs. With all the stealth of an 11th century Chinese warrior guarding the most precious of idealized royalty with his expendable life, Dwight squeezes in between the small space he'd allotted for himself, soundlessly closes the door behind him, and moves at a straight and narrow pace towards the desk.

"I have several misconducts to report--"

"Please," Michael cuts him off, tiredly. "Just--stop."

Dwight, trained to listen to those in higher positions, dutifully quiets. But, dammit, those people out there, those _slackers_. He lowers his voice, steadies it to a level of deadly seriousness. "But--"

"No."

He quickly zips his lips. His nerves are on fire. "It's just--"

"No."

"I--"

"No!" Michael finally lifts his head and, just as Dwight expected, his eyes are weary from lack of sleep. As a Schrute, Dwight's capable--nay, Dwight _prefers_--a decent 4 hours of sleep, sometimes less. It's all his body needs. He's packed with enough natural adrenaline to keep him awake and alert at all times. Obviously Michael isn't as proficient. "Why do you always do that?" he asks. "You're always in my office, always yakking about something, always being _you._ Why?"

Dwight seriously considers this. "Any number of reasons, really." A list is most efficient. "Superior DNA coding. Meticulous grooming. The honing of a well-crafted personality specifically shaped by a legion of Schrutes before me. Poweraide--"

"God, there you go again. I don't--I just don't get it. Seriously, you might as well being speaking Japanese, or whatever. Ig-pay Atin-lay. Something totally inco...halable, I don't know."

Dwight pauses. Looks slyly into the camera that's circling Michael like a starving buzzard on the prowl for a hearty meal, then smirks. "Arigato. Roboto."

Michael stares at Dwight for a really long time. He's probably ultra-pumped to know someone multilingual. It's what makes Dwight a good Assistant Regional Manager. He can sell paper to ALL sorts of people, sans language barriers.

"Go," Michael says. "Please leave this office immediately."

"But what about the misconducts?" He starts to pull out his spiral notebook, pages covered with his familiar scrawl. "I've got tons to report."

"You know what you do, Dwight? You lower productivity level."

Unexpected, but fictitious all the same. "That's not true."

"Yes it is, and you know what? I have the numbers to prove it."

"Absolutely false. I increase productivity levels by 4, easily."

"No, you don't, because you create this--this--this _tension_ wherever you go. You know what people think when you're around, Dwight? 'How can I not work today?' That's what you do--you make people NOT work. You might as well be Toby."

"No."

"Yes. Look at me. I'm not working, am I? No. And you know why?"

"Because Jan Levinson's a blackhole of cosmic sucking proportions?" Dwight mutters, mostly to himself.

"What? No. _No._ It's because YOU'RE here, Dwight. I see you, and I shut down. My will to work ceases to exist. You literally kill my will to work."

Dwight shifts from his left foot to his right. Equal bloodflow. "That's not true."

"Fine. You're right. You're absolutely right. What do I know? I'm just the boss of a major paper company, after all. I'm just... I'm just an improv actor, not even a REAL one. I can't even ACT like everybody else. I'll probably never win an Emmy. GOD, I'm a FAILURE."

As Michael's #2, Dwight's used to this exact scene. He takes a step forward, ready to comfort Michael the best he knows how.

(Smiting womankind, complaining about Jim, recapping that week's Battlestar Galactica.)

"That's why Jan doesn't want to..." Michael looks up at him, seriously depressed. "She said she was looking for _BETTER_. Pffft. What does she even know? Jan Levinson-GOULD. That guy had it right. Get out while you can. Divorce. And, smart guy, he took his last name back. I wouldn't want her to have mine either. Jan Levinson-_Scott_. Yeeckkk. Could you imagine?"

Disgustingly well, but Dwight doesn't paint a word-picture of the visual that pops into his mind.

"It doesn't even matter," Michael cries. "None of it MATTERS."

There's a sudden soft knock on the door and, before Dwight can properly access the situation, Pam pushes the door open and pokes her head through. "Uh, Michael?"

"Go away," Michael groans.

Pam stands there uselessly for a long moment. Then, "Jan's on the phone."

In a quick change, Michael's mood switches. "Out. Everyone get out of my office!"

As Pam complies and starts to scatter to go do the very little that she gets way overpaid to do, Michael picks up the phone. "Go!" he whisper-shouts to Dwight, who stays locked in place. "Shoo."

"But--"

"Two seconds, Dwight. If you're not out of here in 2 seconds, I'm handing your job over to Jim."

It takes half that time for Dwight to make it out of Michael's office, past the annoying cameraman, and back safely to his desk.

**4.**

Sitting securely, he breathes in and out heavily, trying to catch his breath, and notices, much to his dismay, that his computer background has been changed from the pleasant deserted island one, to a fat baby dressed up as a butterfly.

Dwight _hates_ butterflies.

When he looks toward Jim, the obvious suspect to this heinous crime, Jim avoids eye contact.

Typical.

Without bothering to make a spectacle out of one of Halpert's _lame_ jokes, Dwight just pulls out his spiral notebook, clicks on his pen, and begins to write down a formal complaint to HR. He signs it twice, for insurance purposes, then rips the page out, folds it neatly, and (making sure to catch Jim's attention), tucks it carefully, safely in the top drawer of his desk.

"Oh-kay," Jim says, wide-eyed. "_That_ was scary."

"Shut up, Jim."

The eyes widen even more. "Ouch. That had some zing."

"Michael's on the phone right now, talking to Jan Levinson about you."

"No he's not."

"Uh, yes. I was just in there. I think I would know."

"Actually, you weren't just in there. You were outside."

"What?"

"Yeah, I saw you from the window. I _THINK_ you were throwing rocks at Michael's car, I don't know."

"Not. True."

"Personally, I'm shocked. That is a REALLY nice car--"

Dwight leans across his desk, stretched easily, his body lithe. "I was in Michael's office--"

"Outside, by Michael's car."

"IN HIS OFFICE, recounting," he says, smugly, "your vast ineptitudes."

"From outside? Did you have a megaphone, or some--"

"I WAS NEVER OUTSIDE. I've been INSIDE this entire time!"

"Really? The ENTIRE time?"

"Yes!"

"So it wasn't you I saw outside?"

"No!"

"Wait. You're saying you WEREN'T throwing rocks at Michael's car?"

Dwight lets out a frustrated sigh. "Of course not."

Jim looks beyond Dwight's shoulder, his mouth pressed thin and his forehead crinkled, which means, of course, he's looking into the camera. Dwight HATES when Jim does that. Plays for the television crew, like a trained monkey. It's pathetic.

"Okay," Jim says again, with a final shrug, and gets back to work--or, more likely, finishes his game of Solitaire.

Warily, still watching Jim out of the corner of his eye, Dwight begins to focus on his own computer in front of him. He's had a good work day, obviously, and he feels like tonight maybe him and Mose will indulge in a celebration. Perhaps they'll flick on PBS and catch Antiques Roadshow, if Stargate SG-1 isn't on.

It takes approximately 48 seconds for Dwight to change his background back. He does it pointedly so, obliterating that offensive fat baby background without a second thought. 


End file.
